


Holding Fast

by Phoenixflames12



Category: Aubrey-Maturin Series - Patrick O'Brian, Master and Commander - All Media Types, Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World (2003)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-30 09:59:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18313319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenixflames12/pseuds/Phoenixflames12
Summary: After the Surprise retakes the Acheron, Tom Pullings finds himself himself wounded in the action





	Holding Fast

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Worthy of Verse](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1639829) by [gritkitty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gritkitty/pseuds/gritkitty). 



> This one shot has grown out of my new found love of the Aubreyad and the masterful way that Peter Weir managed to encapsulate the essence of all of Patrick O'Brian's books into the film.
> 
> I've also got a massive soft spot for the friendship between Pullings and Mowett, so this grew out of a need to write that in all of its' glory.

‘Tom? Tom, are you all right?’

 

William’s voice comes from a long way off, the question throbbing dully through the fog of pain and exhaustion that clouds his brain.

 

He has few memories of the last hours and those he does have are slashed through into pockets of sound, the hissing sting and dull pull of a sabre plunging through cloth and skin, body and bone and the high, sharp tang of blood against salt stained wood.

 

Memories of the crash and pull of bodies thudding into his own as he had fought his way across the quarter deck, the air about him thick and humming with blood and gunpowder.

 

He had barely felt what had been done to him in the heat of the attack.

 

Had barely felt the thud of elbows into his stomach or the cry of shot past his ear or the crash of flotsam thudding onto the deck. The _Surprise_ had lived up to her name and had taken the _Acheron_ just off the coast of Valparaiso, with Lucky Jack racing into the ratlines to board her.

 

A shot of bile rises in his throat at the thought of Jack orchestrating the carnage, burning his parched mouth, gagging him as he fights to ignore it.

 

Fights to ignore the aching pull of fatigue that is lapping over him like a tide on a pebbled beach, the salty tang of blood bubbling against each exhale. His hands blur before his eyes as they grip the rail, long fingers stained a crusted, blackened scarlet with blood and powder and without warning, his thoughts slip to those of Constance.

 

Thinks of her as she had been when they had married at the church of St Giles’ back in summer flushed Hampshire. She had been radiant in white with her hand resting lightly on her Father’s arm as he led her up to the altar, the light from the stained glass windows catching her hair and setting it aflame, her smile as radiant as the sun itself.

 

Thinks of her as she had been when the  _Surprise_ had left Portsmouth, her large, grey eyes brimming over with earnest love, a few auburn curls escaping her bonnet and whispering through his fingers as he had taken her face in his hands and kissed her quietly, trying not to look at the slight swell of her stomach against her gown.

 

The ghost of a child whom he may never get to see.

 

A son or daughter who might grow up with only a name, a handful of letters and a medal or two to tell them of their father whose grave lay somewhere in the heaving, southern swells of the Atlantic.

 

‘ _I will come back. I promise.’_

_They had been easy enough words to say as the hum of adventure sang through the salt-sharp breezes off Portsmouth, but now?_

Now all he can see is De Vigny, or the man whom he had believed to be De Vigny with his shirt torn to ribbons of linen and elbow deep in blood; his sallow face blank and impassive as he was led away to the _Acheron’s_ great cabin by the master of the marine guard.

 

All he can see is Calamy’s youthful face that he had always thought held such promise, now blank and cold in death as the sides of his hammock had been drawn over his head for the final time.

 

Sadness rips against his parched throat at the thought and he chokes it back, smarts of salt pricking fiercely at the corners of his eyes.

 

Dull bruises rise with a new throbbing agony against his chest and torso, the snag of an edge of a splinter digging against the line of his left shoulder blade and he grits his teeth against the pain, an agonised breath whistling through his teeth.

 

 ‘Tom.’

 

A hand on his shoulder.

 

A voice that he recognises and the realisation almost sends him reeling as William’s handsome, homely face swims into view.  A new scar cuts across his friends’ cheek, his dark eyes wide with concern as he looks him up and down.

 

‘William. I…’

 

Each word feels thick and grey and heavy, his tongue rasping heavily across the roof of his mouth like sandpaper.

 

Slowly, he tries to push away from the rail to greet his old friend properly, but as he tries to take a step forward, his legs buckle, the pull of his shirt against his shoulder sending a shock of pain across his upper body. The deck pitches beneath his feet, the world tilting dangerously towards the sea as his knees begin to crumple to earth.

 

The last thing he feels are warm, steady hands rising up to break his fall.

 

* * *

 

 

Time has fractured itself into a bloody thing that makes no sense.

 

Fragments of light and shadow dance and pulse before his half-closed eyes, the long shafts of sunlight that fall from the quarter deck falling away into the shadowed darkness of the gun room.

 

An involuntary groan catches in his throat as his body is lowered to the confines of his cot, the _Surprise’s_ roll too much for his aching head to bear.  

 

Dully, he recognises hands ripping away the remnants of his shirt, fingernails pulling apart threadbare linen that is crusted into a dry, rusted scarlet with blood and powder.

 

‘The wound will fester if it’s not cleaned and that splinter removed. We do not have much time. Mr Mowett, if you will kindly…’

 

Someone is holding his head, supporting his jaw as something cool mixed with a cold, metallic tang dribbles onto his lips.

 

Water.

 

Laudanum.

 

The thought of being drugged makes his stomach clench and with an effort that feels too much to bear, he turns his head away, wanting nothing more than to find somewhere cool to rest his aching head.

 

‘You have to drink Tom. Please. Dr Maturin says…’

 

William’s voice breaks in the stifling darkness, whatever he is going to say next falling away into nothingness.

 

The weight of a hand reaching to grip his own, the song of a pulse beating across his palm, a finger reaching to brush a sweaty lock of hair from his forehead.

 

‘Make him drink it, Mr Mowett.’ An edge to the voice that he loves dearly and the light changes, plunging into shadows as Maturin moves closer.

 

He cannot.

 

‘Please, Tom.’

 

Slowly, so slowly he can almost convince himself that he isn’t doing it, he lets the vile liquid be tipped into his mouth and swallows painfully against the metallic fire that burns the back of his throat relentlessly.

 

The hand holding the back of his head slowly moves away and a piece of worn leather is slipped between his teeth, firm hands clamping down on his jaw so that his teeth fall into the marks left by those who have gone before him.

 

Somewhere in the darkness of the outside world, he can hear Dr Maturin’s voice giving out orders, the weight of a steady hand probing his shoulder that resounds with a dull throb of pain as the flash of a knife passes before his line of vision.

 

Desperately, he tries to evade it, but the gag chokes into his throat, and the hands on his shoulder tighten their grip.

 

‘That’s it. Hold him down, firmly now.’

 

 Out of the corner of his eye, the knife flashes once and the world explodes.

 

* * *

 

 

Later Mowett will sit by his cot caught in the _Surprise’s_ gentle rock and sway and tell him everything.

 

Later he will hear about how the metallic clash of Maturin’s instruments exposed bloody secrets of flesh and muscle, probing past the white flash of living bone as the Demilune ground upwards into the heart of Pullings’ shoulder.

 

Later, he will see Mowett’s eyes widen as he described the bloody spike that had buried itself under Tom’s skin. It had been ten inches across apparently and wicked sharp, a detail that will make Tom choke back a pained chuckle, his mouth still burning with the bitter memories of Maturin’s laudanum, wincing as the sutures in his shoulders pull against the sudden tightening of his bandages.  

 

But then his oldest friend will quieten, his eyes glistening as he lays a hand on Tom’s shoulder, his voice suddenly thick in the quiet and Tom will look at him sidelong, a silent question blooming against his lips

 

_What is it, Will?_

‘I thought… There was a moment where… Forgive me, Tom,’ he will say through a thick swallow. ‘But… There was a moment where we thought that we’d lost you. The Captain and Dr Maturin went all grave and ordered that there was to be no noise abaft the mainmast and…’

 

‘You wouldn’t lose me to that Will,’ he will murmur, watching the curve of his friend’s mouth twitch into something that could be considered a smile.

 

But that is for the future and now, as the ship slowly continues on her course with her skysails blown out in full, Tom feels the weight of Mowett’s hand slowly slip into his own and press down gently.

 

‘I’m here, Tom,’ he hears before the full extent of his exhaustion pulls him under. ‘I’ll stay for as long as you like.’

 

* * *

**_Fin_ **

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to read and review! Comments, suggestions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain!
> 
> Much love and enjoy x


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